The Least Degree of Mastery
by Megkips
Summary: The first lab is always the hardest. Those with any sort of alchemy knowledge stored within their family's crest struggle awkwardly in understanding the technical elements, only for their transmutations to go perfectly because such basic knowledge was practiced once before - perhaps not even seriously - whereas the younger blooded mages, or those without the wisdom of ages to dra


"The goal of your first laboratory assignment is simple," Waver announces to the classroom at large. It is to his comfort that all twenty three students that sit at the long benches common to all of the Clock Tower laboratories look awake, or at least not like they'll ruin a spell by half muttering a word and causing all of the windows to combust. He can't risk an accident on the first lab of the term. "I want you to transmute the metal in front of you into another shape. That means breaking down its structure into its finest points, rearranging the molecules, then reconstructing it into a design of your own choosing. Each table has chalk for you to use. Please use that and only that, as it is easiest to clean up. Your lab books will not only provide suggestions for transmutation circles, but accurate descriptions of what each element of the circle means, allowing you to modify it to your liking. You are only permitted to use the symbols that are attached to lab one - I don't have the time or energy to explain to the powers that be why the entire laboratory is on fire.

"You will have fourty-five minutes to complete this assignment, or until everyone is done. When we're done, we will discuss the process of transmutation itself, so pay close attention to your own process and be prepared to participate." He pauses, taking a long breath and bracing himself. "Any questions? No? Good. If you need help, raise your hand and someone will come over."

The first lab is always the hardest. Those with any sort of alchemy knowledge stored within their family's crest struggle awkwardly in understanding the technical elements, only for their transmutations to go perfectly because such basic knowledge was practiced once before - perhaps not even seriously - whereas the younger blooded mages, or those without the wisdom of ages to draw upon, breeze through the technical elements only to spend their time struggling to bend a piece of metal from the inside out. It's a nasty day, full of cursing so creative that some of the undermages may very well be inventing new hexes for all Waver knows, and the point of the lesson is always met with unhappy resistance.

At the first few hands that fly up, Waver nods for his two graduate students to go and help. There is little need for him to rush over and assist students with technical questions, nor does he have the patience to sit and go over what he repeated five times in lecture the other day. He saves his patience for the transmutations themselves, the part that tries many an undermage, and when the first familiar spark of transmutation fills the lab - a mix of crackling electricity and scent of smoldering metal, followed by a precise application of the word fuck - he runs over to see what has gone wrong without waiting for a hand to go up.

"Okay," he says, coming to stand behind a student who looks more than slightly taken aback by the sudden discharge of energy. "Judging by the warped metal, your prana was mis-channeled. Walk me through what you did and we can find where you went wrong."

Waver listens carefully to the explanation given, only to hear five more students let out yelps and sounds of dismay in the background. He mentally catalogues the direction each cry comes from, then readjusts his attention back to the lab bench he stands at. "Let's see then-" he murmurs, eyes drifting from the student to her transmutation circle. "-Ah. There's the problem, your circle is too faint . Some of the lines cut out, like here-" he points, "-here, and there. They need to be clearly defined, otherwise the prana won't flow properly. Try again, and if there's still a problem, I'll come back over. Got it?"

"Got it."

Waver doesn't so much as pause before moving on to the next student, all but running to the other side of the room where he heard the next cry for help. He motions for one of his graduate students to approach a third student whose hand looks as if it's been dangling in the air for far too long. Only two students look particularly finished and bored, and Waver notes them as well, willing to bet that they are mages from long lines who performed the lab's task with nary a thought.

"If you've finished," Waver says to the class at large, after having helped the second student, and noting an increased number of hands in the air as well as bored mages, "See if you can assist your peers rather than staring blankly at the ceiling."

For a moment, Waver stands still, eyes lingering on those finished, wishing he could be surprised that he even had to administer the instruction. Still, he is obeyed, and the remaining hands in the air are seen to, until the forty five minutes have passed. He strides from the lab benches back towards the front of the lab, shoving his hands in his pockets as he goes.

"That's time!" he calls out, workboots scuffing along the lab's pristine white floors. "And I know you're all done, given by the change of discussion going on in this room. By the way, the answer is the third floor of Clover Hall is indeed haunted, and it's not advisable to anger the ghosts that have taken up residence there."

Waver stops in front of the desk that sits before the great blank chalkboard at the front of the room, then turns himself to face the class. "So," he asks, pausing to seat himself comfortably atop the desk. "Who wants to tell me how they performed their transmutation?"

When the inevitable dead, awkward silence follows, he cracks no jokes nor encourages someone to speak up. Instead, his eyes search through the crowd, coming to rest on a familiar face, with high cheekbones and long ginger hair, tied back and lovingly braided before being swept up into a bun. "Miss Archibald, why don't you give it a shot?"

In any other situation, even acknowledging Ismene in class could be seen as favouritism, but here, Waver dares if only because he knows her answer before she gives it. Ismene offers a firm, even answer as if Waver is any other professor, not the lord whose hair she has sat and braided as a child and who she permits to act on behalf of her family now, saying, "I just did it. There was no thought involved."

"As I might expect," he says, letting faux dismay colour his voice. "Anyone have a different answer, one that's slightly more detailed?"

This time, a few nervous hands go up, slow, barely rising above the heads of their owners. Waver picks one from the far right of the room. "Well," the boy looks to be about fourteen in Waver's estimation, and clearly a student from abroad based on his accent. Italian, probably. "You gave us each three pieces of metal - all copper, all the same width, height and weight. I checked that before I did anything with them-" he stops, looking to Waver for approval, not daring to go on until Waver has nodded his head to confirm that this was the correct thing to do. "So, then I looked at the lab book for suggestions. It seemed like the easiest thing would be to weave them together, so I referenced the book for a circle that would give me the ability to break the copper down, change it's width and height while maintaining the mass and braid them together."

"Good," Waver says. "When you performed the transmutation, what steps did you take?"

"Er-"

"Try, at the very least, I understand that there is always some difficulty in describing this process."

"Right. In pressing my right hand to the transmutation circle, I unlocked my circuits and channeled the prana from them into the lines of the circle, letting the power flow into everything that had been drawn by the chalk and into the copper pieces. Then - sorry, this is where it gets hard - I suppose I simply imposed my will on the metal? No, that doesn't make sense when I say it outloud, but I just tried to force it to do what I wanted, and it worked."

Waver gives a curt nod in approval. "Thank you, that's the answer I was looking for. What's your name?"

"Valerio Sorto, sir."

"Professor," Waver corrects automatically, before addressing the class at large. "Now. How many of you could have put that process into words, as Mr Sorto did?"

A smattering of sheepish hands rise to answer Waver's question. He counts them in his head and memorizes their faces before continuing. "That's maybe thirty percent of the entire class. Which means only thirty percent of you truly understand what is being done - the rest of you have done this automatically and without thought. That is unacceptable - not only for the rest of this course, but for the rest of your lives. You will discover nothing if you do not break down what you know and dissect how it works."

He stops for a moment and looks at the rest of the lab with defiant eyes, daring someone to speak up and challenge him. When silence answers, Waver permits a satisfied smile to cross his face. "Reflect on that for the week. Class dismissed, I'll see you all in lecture on Thursday. If you have any questions, come talk to me on your way out."

Waver hops off the desk and circles around it, letting the usual chatter and rummaging for bags fill his ears. The first lab is always like this - full of skeptical faces staring at him during the first lesson, trying to decide if such bizarre theories are worth talking to the head of the department or vice director of the Clock Tower about. He can think of five individuals who might, based on expression alone, and makes a note in his mind to keep a particular eye on their assignments.

"Velvet."

The ever familiar voice of the tenth head of the Archibald family cuts into Waver's train of thought, and he can't say he's surprised by the threat of reprimand embedded in how Ismene says his name.

"Yes?" he replies, turning to find Ismene on the other side of the desk, eyes narrowed and scowl plain on his face.

"Why did you call on me?" she asks, her tone skirting that of demand by inches.

"Because I expected an answer," Waver replies, using his forearms to support himself as he leans across the desk. "And I thought you would be able to supply it."

"On what basis? This is the first time I've done any work with alchemy."

Waver shrugs. "It was everyone's first time - this is an introductory class, after all. I simply expected you to be capable of describing the process of transmutation."

"You knew very well I couldn't," Ismene counters. "Besides, there is alchemical knowledge within my family's crest that automatically-"

"-Precisely," Waver finishes. "One should have mastery over every spell they know, either learned first hand or stored within their family line. Nothing should ever be automatic - that means you don't understand how it works. That's foolish, because understanding - down to the smallest action - allows one to take that knowledge and reshape it into something completely new."

Ismene shifts her weight, and the weight of her purse, readjusting the straps so that it doesn't slide down her shoulder. It's not resistance, but it isn't consideration of his words either. "Tell me, how many complaints have you gotten from uttering these theories in front of mixed group of mages?"

"Enough," Waver says, matching Ismene's dry voice with his own. "I'm certain you can guess why I have yet to be sacked."

"Something like that, yes."

"Mm, and on that note, I would appreciate a charade of teacher and pupil here." Waver sighs when he says it, as if the weight of the request has forced all of the air out of him. "It does me no good to have a student publicly treat me in the way our relationship permits behind closed doors."

Ismene looks as if she might laugh at the request, but the moment passes and she nods assent. "Understandable. I hesitated to take any of your courses for the very same reason."

"Well, there we are then. I'll give you no more notice than any other student," he says. "And to that effect, you should be on your way, I have to have a post-lab break down with the TAs." Waver does not voice his suspicion that there is another reason as well. There is no reason to, and the truth is, it matters little. So he hums as he shuffles through his over the shoulder bag, allowing Ismene to leave without any more words passing between them. In the back of his mind, Waver contemplates the advantages of their new charade, then sets the thoughts aside as he gestures to his TAs, declaring that they can break the lab down over tea rather than letting their words echo awkwardly through the empty lab.

* * *

**Notes**

*This fic was originally posted on Archive of Our Own on 24 September 2014. The mirror is here: /works/520135  
*This fic is a part of the series If Not Alexander, then Diogenes, and is available on AO3 here: /series/23756


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